Flying Fur, Shredding Trails and Growing the Community

Buffalo Pound Provincial Park

By the time we reached Regina Saskatchewan, we’d driven 2,500 kilometers, gassed up over a dozen times, eaten at Smitty’s Pancake House twice (Cobb salad both times!), run out of gas almost twice (to conserve gas one of the times, and ensure we made it to the gas station, Paul unhitched the Uhaul in front of an abandoned motel, but that’s another story).

My relationship is still intact, in case you were wondering.

Not to mention that for three days of driving and/or working on my laptop in the passenger seat on little sleep, I was frazzled. I’d already ridden my Intrigue Advanced Pro 29 with groups of women in Sault Ste. Marie, Thunder Bay and Winnipeg, so by this time, with all the considerations I mentioned, I was thinking of skipping riding in Regina altogether. I needed a break. Then, a friend from my Instagram mentioned the trails in Buffalo Pound, Saskatchewan: ‘Those trails are legendary—you gotta go.”

So, as stressed-out women often do, I got my act together and made it happen.

The park also hosts, pre covid, annual events—XTERRA triathlons and an eight-hour race (once they hosted a provincial race).

It’s not just that it’s shocking to find hills in Saskatchewan, it’s that they are so dam steep. We hit a short trail, Roots. We zip down the trail in no time, but as someone who loves climbing, we decide it must be climbed; however, these trails are one directional. To ensure we don’t ram into another ride, Jen waits at the bottom while Susan and I grunt our way to the top. With all my weight over the handlebars and front wheel, so the front doesn’t lift off the ground, I’m struggling to stay on the trail and make it to the top.

Then, we quickly turn around and bomb back down. Adrenalin surging and endorphins running wild, I want more, more, more! It takes minutes to reach Jen.

Heading back to our Uhaul and Paul, who are waiting under the shade of a tree, Paul informs me that the basket holding all my shoes and boots broke—my precious footwear is strewn everywhere in the back of the van. If you know anything about me, you know that my shoes are my children. I have more than 20 pairs of boots and shoes from around the world–delicate green slippers from Paris, red clunky clogs from Norway, and donkey boots from Toronto–cowboy style boots with coloured donkeys that I wore at my mother’s memorial. This is just a sample. Without missing a beat, Susan runs to her car and grabs two durable grocery bags—oddly enough, just enough to carry the shoes.

The babies are back in order and all is right with the world.

It only takes  a few hours of riding with women, bonding over our love of riding and homes, and now, shoes, to make me feel satiated and calm. Getting back in the car, I’m so grateful I didn’t miss out on this ride. Thanks ladies. See you again on the way back!